


Warmaiden

by mongoose_bite



Series: Dyce the Incredibly Easy Breton [20]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Clothed Sex, F/M, Naked Male Clothed Female, Noncanonical Trans Character, Snogging, Trans, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:54:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mongoose_bite/pseuds/mongoose_bite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dyce is not prepared as he thinks he is for the reality of war. Jenassa has some advice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warmaiden

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a prompt on the kmeme for a genderqueer or trans character, the details being left up to the author. I decided not to focus on the trans aspect of the character, but to make it incidental to a wider story. I've never written a trans character before, so concrit is welcomed.

The sun beat down on Dyce’s head and sparks flew around him as he held his blade to the stone. It was a fine, still day in Whiterun. He tested the blade with his thumb. Satisfied, he sheathed it at his hip, and stood up from the grinding stone. Now that the sound of steel on stone had ceased, all was quiet.

The sign hanging above Warmaiden’s squeaked slightly.

Dust clung to Dyce’s boots as he walked towards the markets. The stalls were empty; no one sung praises of their produce, no one called for customers. One solitary guard, his hand on the hilt of his sword, lurked near the general goods store. He watched Dyce ascend the steps towards the Gildergreen sapling. Dyce looked at it for a while, and brushed a hand over its feathery young branches.

The shrine to Talos was deserted. Dyce looked up towards Dragonsreach but decided against visiting. He had nothing to say.

Aela was standing at the door of Jorrvaskr, arms folded, watching him expressionlessly. He shook his head slightly, and she turned and went inside. He wouldn’t involve them. Back towards the front gates, the guards silent as he strode past.

Someone was waiting for him, leaning against the fence near Warmaidens. A Dunmer woman. She was dressed in leather, and she had a mass of braids and wild brown hair swept back over her shoulders, away from a lean, severe face. Deep red eyes gleamed among her warpaint.

Dyce paused.

“You’re going to war,” she said. “The plains of Whiterun are a blank canvas, waiting for an artist such as I. I’ll watch your back, Thane. For a price, my blades are yours.”

Dyce considered for a while. “Will gems do?”

She nodded. “My name is Jenassa.”

“Dyce.” He gave her a pouch of precious stones and shook her hand.

As much as he usually disliked wearing anything on his head, Dyce tucked his hair into his Nightingale Hood and drew the mask up over his face. One last glance at Whiterun, and the guard opened the gate for him, Jenassa two steps behind.

The plains of Whiterun were seething with gleaming steel and the deep blue of the Stormcloaks. Dyce liberated a horse from the stables, and Jenassa didn’t hesitate to acquire one of her own. They rode out among the ranks of Stormcloaks, and on the hills to the north Dyce could see the Imperial forces massing and arranging themselves.

He was in search of Galmar, and he found him near the front line, sending runners out across the battlefield carrying messages for platoon commanders.

“Dragonborn! We’ve been waiting for you,” he said.

“I’m here now,” Dyce said. “Just making sure Whiterun was secured.”

He dismounted and Jenassa followed silently.

“Wise of them,” Galmar said. “But I don’t believe it will be necessary. We’ll let the Imperials beat their heads against us for a while, and then we’ll send the survivors packing. Whiterun is lost to them. Who’s the elf?” He glanced at Jenassa with disapproval.

“Hired help,” Dyce said. “Mine, not yours.”

“As you like, Dragonborn.”

Dyce had beaten the snot out of Galmar’s brother weeks before, and had dared Galmar to make something of it. Galmar had declared it not his problem, and Dyce could tell he was torn between amusement and annoyance at the whole thing.

“You will be at the front, Dragonborn. We’ll wait for them to come to us. And then show yourself. Let no one in Skyrim be in doubt as to which side the Dragonborn fights for.”

Dyce nodded, glad his mask hid his decidedly unenthusiastic expression, and made his way through the troops. Ralof greeted him, but they didn’t have time to talk; there was movement among the enemy.

“Watch my back,” Dyce told Jenassa.

“I am your shadow.”

And then they waited as cloud shadows drifted across the battlefield, and the gleam of sunlight on their opponents’ weapons sparked and shifted as they rearranged themselves. The sound of horns drifted down from the mountains.

“Here they come.”

_Fus Ro Dah!_

It was not Dyce’s preferred style of fighting to stand out the front and make himself noticeable. In fact, he’d never been to war before, and it was genuine fear that had motivated him to hire Jenassa. He wanted someone looking out for him specifically, ideally someone who wasn’t actively trying to kill him.

The rain of arrows hadn’t drawn the Stormcloaks forward, and has Galmar had predicted, the enemy had come to them. Dyce Shouted, pushing them back, sending soldiers tumbling with a voice that echoed across the battlefield. But he could only Shout periodically, and the wave of Imperial troops was not delayed for long.

He had no idea what was going on; it was all he could do to tell friend from foe, and swing at the latter while trying to stick close to the former. His blades flashed briefly before they became stained with gore.

And Jenassa, as promised, had his back.

Every time he looked around she was there, and if she didn’t have someone within blades reach, she fired arrows back up the hill into the mass of Imperial troops. She fought like he did; fast and light on her feet.

The sun sank, but neither side made any progress, the line of clashing steel stretched across the north side of the Whiterun plains. Bloodied and battered and exhausted, Dyce Shouted himself hoarse, and waited for the sun to go down and bring the fighting to an end for the day.

When it grew too dark to distinguish friend from foe, both sides retreated, set watches and built huge bonfires to see off the dark. There was no need to fear wolves tonight; all the game had been driven off by the cares and contests of men.

When they were given the orders to stand down Dyce pulled his hood off his head and stumbled for fresh air, a bit of space. He’d spent all afternoon in a chaotic crush of people, and as the moons rose he walked away, looking for a stream not already colonised by tired and dirty Stormcloaks refilling their waterskins and washing their wounds.

“Are you alright?” he asked, when he noticed Jenassa following him. It was hard to tell if she was injured under the blood and muck of the battle.

“Nothing serious, sera.”

He found a stream and knelt down to wash his face and hands, and wipe down his blades. Jenassa stood guard, looking out over the dotted fires.

“I’m not cut out for this,” Dyce confessed, watching the moon’s reflection ripple and fragment as the water swirled over stones.

“Few are,” Jenassa said. “But you are being too hard on yourself. You wield your blade like one born to it, with conviction. And when you Shout, Nirn shakes before you.”

“I don’t want Nirn to shake before me.”

“We are not always given a choice about who we are,” Jenassa said sharply. “You either live with it, or you die. Those are the only options. You fight with conviction, but you don’t wage war with conviction.”

“That’s because I’m not convinced!” Dyce got to his feet. “This war is being fought against the wrong enemy for all the wrong reasons. But it’s gone too far and there’s no way to stop it or change direction. So it just has to be done.”

There was a low stone bridge spanning the stream and Dyce leant against it.

“Take it from someone who’s helped win, and lose, more wars than she can count,” Jenassa said. “Wars are not ‘just done.’ They are won. You know, when you’re fighting someone, you can tell if their blade is uncertain. You can read someone’s heart through their steel. In the muck, and the blood, you fight like I do; but you fight alone. You are important in this war; if you truly intend to win, you must take the rest of your side with you.”

“Is that how you win wars?”

“In a way. I’m an artist. Art inspires people. Or terrifies them.”

“Huh,” Dyce tilted his head and looked at her. “You have a poetic soul. More so than most in the Bards’ College do.”

She chuckled, “And you have a soft heart. It doesn’t make you weak, necessarily, but it does mean you can’t win this war without it.”

“What about your heart?” Dyce said.

She raised her eyebrows. “What about it?”

“I can’t read it.”

“There is only one way to read hearts.”

“Through steel. All right. I’m game.”

Dyce turned and vaulted up onto the bridge, seized with sudden purpose. Jenassa watched him with amused surprise.

“You would fight more on this evening?”

“Well not to the death, obviously. Pretend I just want a look at your technique.”

“I’m hardly afraid of you.” Her lips curled into a smile.

Dyce grinned. “Good.” She walked more sedately onto the bridge, and Dyce drew one of his blades. “Just one, perhaps?”

“As you like.”

Her blade was like a striking snake, and Dyce was obliged to step sharply out of the way. He reposted and she deflected, sliding his blade past her ribs and stepping away to attack again. Dyce wanted to forget the use his weapons had found earlier that day; crude, endless hacking. He wanted his finesse back, his deliberate strikes.

She wasn’t going to make it easy.

Her steel licked at his defenses, and he fought faster, more recklessly. She found an opening and he was obliged to use his free hand to snatch at her wrist, pulling her past him. Her eyes widened and she stepped away again.

“What’s that about?” she asked.

“Can’t you tell?” Dyce asked. “Read my steel.”

She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes thoughtfully before she charged in, blade swinging. Dyce blocked and they ground their swords against each other, teeth bared, testing the other’s strength, but holding back so as not to be thrown off-balance by a sudden capitulation.

So it was mutual then, when they relaxed the pressure on their blades and lowered them, still face to face.

“Well?” Dyce asked.

“You’re a fool,” Jenassa breathed. “We are nothing alike.”

“Mhm.” He leaned in and pressed his mouth against hers. After a heartbeat her free hand snaked up and seized his jaw, pulling him deeper into the kiss. He could taste her warpaint, sweat and blood. Just as suddenly she pushed his head away, and stared at him, his stubble still pricking against her gloved fingers.

“I like you,” he said. “Warmaiden with the soul of a poet. I think you like me too; you wouldn’t give advice to just anyone.”

She looked into his eyes for a long moment. “Well, fuck it.” Swords were sheathed and Dyce wrapped his arms around her waist and she wrapped hers around his neck, although they were almost exactly the same height.

She purred and he squeezed her arse through her leather skirt and she pulled away, the moons reflected in her eyes, which looked almost black in this light.

“I bet they’ve set a tent aside for me somewhere,” he said.

“Ah.”

Dyce could practically see the thoughts chasing themselves across her mind. “I’m not going to insist,” he said. “And if you think of something you might like, try me.” He smiled, wicked, game to forget the day and what lay ahead tomorrow for a few hours.

She was clearly tempted, one finger rubbing the back of his neck, her lips slightly parted.

“I might like to keep my clothes on,” she said carefully.

“All right. Do I keep mine on?”

“I hope not.” One hand trailed down his chest. “That would be a crime.”

Dyce grinned, “I know.”

Jenassa knelt down by the steam and washed the muck and blood and most of her warpaint before they walked back to camp. They were hungry. They stopped by the fire and were fed, but the way Jenassa kept looking at him suggested to Dyce it would take more than venison stew and stale bread to satisfy her.

Dyce was most pleased to be given a big tent. It was much easier to get undressed in one of those. Janessa took off her gloves and boots and Dyce took off everything, with as much flair as could be managed while ducking his head so as not to hit the ceiling.

“What do you think?” he asked as she approached him. In answer she bent her head and bit, deliberately but not too hard at one of his nipples. He shuddered and his blood surged and he toppled them both onto the bedroll in a tangle of limbs and leather, and his leg ground up between hers and he drew back sharply, feeling something unexpectedly hard against his thigh.

Janessa bared her teeth. “Shit.”

“Wait! Stop!” Dyce retreated, trying to protect himself from painful contact with her knees as she flailed and wriggled away from him.

She paused, watching him warily.

“Uh.” Dyce ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t really mind if you’re a man.”

“I am not a man,” she said through her teeth.

“Right. I’m sorry. Did I ruin the mood?” he asked with an apologetic look.

“That’s all you’re going to say?”

Dyce shrugged, “I’ve been around a bit. A lot. Let’s just say there’s a first time for everything and this isn’t one of them.”

“That easy, huh?”

“I am.”

She chuckled, and flicked her gaze over him again, her teeth scraping her lip as she decided. “Come here,” she said eventually, and he smiled.

He crawled over her again. “What do you want me to do?” he asked, pliant, uncertain.

She raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it obvious? Fuck me.”

So he did. She didn’t want his hands, she didn’t want oil. Her skirt hitched up around her hips and she wrapped her legs around his waist and threw her head back and arched and urged him in, teeth gleaming against her grey skin. She smiled then, and rewarded him by pulling him down for a kiss and then she bit at his nose and cheeks and told him, again, what she wanted.

And he fucked her as she ran her hands over his bare chest and stomach and shoulders and he tangled his fingers in her magnificent mane of hair and pinched her long ears. She hardly made any noise; she hissed between her teeth and gasped when she was close and came with a groan muffled against her own hand, her eyes on his face. She watched him come, the tip of her tongue showing between her teeth, drinking him in with her dark eyes.

Sated, exhausted, and no less bruised than he was when he left the battlefield, he rolled onto his side and caught his breath.

“That was quite satisfactory,” Jenassa said, her head pillowed on one arm.

“Mhm. You staying? You’re welcome to.”

“No,” she said, perhaps a bit regretfully. “I need to clean up, and unlike you I have a much more pleasant room waiting for me in Whiterun. I’ll see you at dawn.” She sat up.

“I just have one question,” Dyce said. “If you didn’t want me to know. Why did you even come in here?”

She looked at him, amused and cynical. “You’d be surprised how few soldier boys pay that much attention to a battlefield fuck. Or how few have a clue what they’re doing.”

Dyce looked rueful. “I see.”

“You’re sweet though. I’m glad I met you.” She got to her feet and toed on her boots. Her gloves she tucked into her belt.

“Jenassa.” She paused at the tent flap and looked back at him still lying naked on the furs and by now getting somewhat cold. “I’ll win this war,” he told her. “I owe Skyrim that.”

“Maybe.” She shrugged. “I shall, at least, look forward to seeing you win the battle tomorrow.”

And he did, with his warmaiden at his back.


End file.
